Wild gales whip the Southern Ocean,
spraying salt and surf asunder
across the waves,
an invisible conductor
of an Antarctic opera.
A cross-shaped glider,
black wings against the clouds,
a pink bill and ice white feathers.
The mother albatross soars above
the thrashing sea,
barely moving a wingtip,
glides through the theatre of her struggle,
her mission's end in sight.
On a blizzard-besieged hillside
a mess of black down,
his bill as pink as his mother's,
huddles against the chill,
weathering the winter alone
till a familiar shape plummets
out of the freezing tempest.
The chick feasts on what scraps
his wandering mother could scrounge,
meagre offerings from the unyielding waves.
Not long now,
and the ocean will call her away once more.
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